


i went looking for knives and i was looking for you

by 152glasslippers



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brienne needs some time to heal but she gets there, F/M, Happy Ending, I'm like Oprah giving out happy endings y'all, Jaime is alive and well and living on Tarth, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, POV Brienne of Tarth, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, in this fic we love and respect ladies, you get a happy ending and you get a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 22:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/152glasslippers/pseuds/152glasslippers
Summary: She’d heard nothing of his fate—alive or dead—after the news of Cersei’s death, but it had hardly mattered. She’d already known he was lost to her forever.His hair was a little shorter, his beard the same. He wore no armor, no Lannister colors, just plain brown leather, his garments clearly designed for labor, not court.He still looked every part the knight.Canon divergent post-8x04. After everything, Brienne returns to Tarth, where she finds the last person she ever expected to see again. *cough* IT’S JAIME *cough*





	i went looking for knives and i was looking for you

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up three months late with fix-it fic* I’m a soft bitch filled with rage over how things ended, so here’s 10,000 words of ladies supporting ladies, Jaime alive on Tarth, and happy endings for everyone.
> 
> A few things:  
1\. I don’t have strong feelings about Daenerys, but I made Dany, Sansa, and Yara all queens for no other reason than FUCK YOU D&D.  
2\. Trigger warning for discussion of assualt/attempted rape of original character. The attack happens off-page and is not described in any detail, but it is mentioned. Take care of yourselves, friends.  
3\. Title comes from Looking for Knives by Dyan, which first sparked the idea for this fic and very much influenced its entire mood. Highly recommend a listen.
> 
> Lastly, this one goes out to the entire JLIACC. You keep me sane. I like us. *honk kiss honk*

She had never been dismissed from duty before. Not once, not ever.

“I don’t understand.”

Sansa gazed up at her kindly, the newly forged direwolf crown gleaming black in the dim winter sunlight.

“I am releasing you from the promise sworn to my mother, to protect the daughters of Winterfell. Consider your oath fulfilled.”

Brienne couldn’t find words. She’d assumed, perhaps selfishly, that after Queen Daenerys had granted the North and the Iron Islands their independence—dividing Westeros into three realms, ruled separately but allied together by their strong and capable queens—that she would lead Sansa’s Queensguard and spend the rest of her life in service to the Starks.

It seemed that was not to be.

“Have I done something wrong, your grace? Have I neglected some part of my duties? Caused you some offense? I assure you—”

“Nothing of the sort, Ser,” Sansa interrupted her. “You have fought tirelessly, bravely. Surely you have earned the right to return home to Tarth, to choose how to live out the rest of your days.”

Brienne blinked at her queen—who would not remain her queen if she returned home—a sickness growing in the pit of her stomach, tears beginning to burn her eyes.

“You would have me leave you, your grace?”

Sansa stood, coming around her writing desk to stand before her. She took Brienne’s calloused hands in her elegant ones.

“I would have you be happy,” she said earnestly, looking her in the eye. “And I fear there are too many memories here for you to be so.”

Brienne’s heart fell. She was right, of course. He was everywhere.

“Who will protect you?” she whispered, clutching Sansa’s hands harder as she felt a tear roll down her cheek.

“I’ve chosen the one man who came closest to besting you in combat.”

The Hound. Of course.

“I suppose he’ll do,” she said stiffly.

The corners of Sansa’s mouth quirked ever so slightly.

“Yes, I thought so.”

They stood together for another minute, gripping each other’s hands, sadness and appreciation passing between them.

Finally, Sansa spoke.

“This is not goodbye. You will always be welcome here at Winterfell, and we will see each other again. In fact, I insist upon it.”

Brienne closed her eyes against the rest of her tears but returned Sansa’s smile.

“Yes, your grace.”

***

Sandor Clegane was already stationed outside Sansa’s door when she left. He raised an eyebrow at her and nodded, his “ser” only half-mocking.

Brienne continued a few paces and then turned back.

“If anything happens to her—”

“If anything happens to her,” Clegane growled, “it’ll be because I’m already dead.”

He stared at her, his meaning plain.

Brienne inhaled deeply, nodded her head.

“Good.”

She turned away again, but over the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall, she could have sworn she heard him laugh.

***

Brienne left for Tarth a week later. Podrick went with her.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. After following her into battle against an army of the dead, of what consequence was Tarth?

But she found that she was.

“You are under no obligation to come with me,” she’d told him. She’d barely given any thought to what she would do to occupy herself in Tarth. Learn how to oversee her people from her father? She’d hardly need a squire for that. It was only fair that she gave him the same choice Queen Sansa had given her. “You are free to choose your own path now.”

He’d looked a little nervous when he answered, and for a second, she saw the boy he’d been when they’d first met. She was glad he hadn’t lost that part of himself, not completely.

“I think I’ll stay with you, Ser. If it’s all the same.”

She’d instructed herself to be unaffected by his decision. He was a man who’d outgrown her service, and she had to accept that. One more goodbye wouldn’t kill her, not when she’d survived the most painful one.

But relief rushed through her at his words, and her heart swelled, overwhelmed by affection for him.

“Yes, Pod” was all she could manage, but he seemed to understand. He beamed back at her.

***

Home was home. It seemed little changed during the long years of her absence, but perhaps that was merely a reflection of how long she’d been away. The distance she’d traveled, the people she’d met, the places she’d seen. How profoundly it had all changed her.

Change on any other scale seemed insignificant in comparison.

Her father’s men were waiting at the port to receive them, to oversee the safe handling of their belongings, not that either of them had many.

They rode for Evenfall, just the two of them, Brienne occasionally pointing out landmarks. The salt in the air soothed the nerves she couldn’t explain, and she closed her eyes briefly, trusting her horse to know the way as she tilted her face toward the sun. It wasn’t as warm as the heat of the summer, but it burned brighter here than it did in Winterfell.

***

Pod saw him first.

They’d only just arrived. She was passing her horse’s reins to a stablehand when Pod grabbed her by the forearm, his fingers tightening almost painfully, even through her armor.

“My lady,” he said in a strangled voice, and she looked to him in alarm. He only used her old title when shock or fear made him forget her new one. He wasn’t looking at her, and she followed his eyeline across the courtyard to the stables, and the man standing just inside.

_Jaime_.

Brienne’s heart started beating so rapidly she felt dizzy. The noise of the courtyard faded to nothing, her blood pounding in her ears.

She’d heard nothing of his fate—alive or dead—after the news of Cersei’s death, but it had hardly mattered. She’d already known he was lost to her forever.

His hair was a little shorter, his beard the same. He wore no armor, no Lannister colors, just plain brown leather, his garments clearly designed for labor, not court.

He still looked every part the knight.

She turned on her heel and fled before he could see her.

***

She made her way unseeingly, her body operating on memory alone, her feet instinctively carrying her somewhere safe. She came to a stop and pressed her back against the wall next to her, gripping the hilt of Oathkeeper, desperate for something to ground her. To clear away the shock and return her to herself.

Sansa had sent her away, sent her home, to a place untouched by the memory of Jaime, only for her to be confronted with the man himself.

Brienne thought she’d understood all the ways life could be cruel. She was wrong.

***

She found her father alone in his private chambers. They’d been speaking for over an hour before she had the courage to bring him up.

“How long has Ser Jaime been at Evenfall?”

“A few months, at least.” Another jolt of shock coursed through her. That was far longer than she’d expected. “He arrived shortly after we received word that the Dragon Queen had taken the throne.”

“Did he give a reason for his journey to Tarth?” she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral.

“When I asked, his only answer was that he’d always wanted to see the Sapphire Isle. I thought it strange, Jaime Lannister showing up here, but he only wanted to know if there was work to be done. I thought the stables a poor use of his skills, but he turned down the position I offered him as a guard. Claimed the rest of my men wouldn’t trust the Kingslayer in their midst. It seems to have worked out for the best, in the end. Apparently, the horses have all taken a liking to him.”

Of course they had. Jaime was the most charming man in all of Westeros. The horses had never stood a chance.

She sighed inwardly. Neither had she.

“Why did you decide to let him stay, given his reputation?”

She knew why she had trusted Jaime, but her father hardly had her reasons or her knowledge.

Her father hummed quietly.

“I’m not quite sure. I think it was something in his eyes.” He paused. “Contrition.”

There was silence between them for a moment.

“Are you well acquainted with him, daughter?”

Brienne dropped her eyes to her lap, to the armor she still hadn’t taken off yet. She and Pod had traveled in full armor the length of their journey. The war may have been over, but transitions of power were hardly peaceful times.

Her armor, a gift from Jaime. Oathkeeper, a gift from Jaime.

Did she know him well?

“A little,” she said.

***

Shock and numbness turned to fury.

Brienne and Podrick trained every day in the training yard—sometimes with a small audience, sometimes not—but he never showed his face to watch them.

She avoided the stables entirely. On her fourth day at home, when she and Podrick rode into town, she met Pod and their horses outside Evenfall’s gates. She studiously avoided asking whether he’d spoken to him.

On the fifth day, her anger got the better of her. How dare he come to her homeland, to her _home_—the one place that belonged to her, her one place of refuge—and seek a life here? What had he meant by it, coming to Tarth? Had he sincerely thought she’d never return?

A traitorous part of her mind wondered if he’d been hoping she would.

Jaime was brushing the horse in the very last stall when she strode into the stables. There was an air of calm around him, his movements steady, his body relaxed and at ease. He looked as handsome as ever. She hated herself for thinking it.

Brienne uttered a quiet “leave us” to the rest of the stablehands who looked up in surprise at her entrance. She waited until they were clear of the stables before she approached him.

He continued brushing the horse, the rhythm of the motion never faltering, even as she stood before him, just outside the stall. She was a mess over him still, even worse now that she was close to him, the sight of him alive dear to her, even as his proximity turned her stomach ill. And yet he was so unmoved by her presence. She felt her heart break all over again.

Jaime spoke first, saving her the agonizing decision of where to start.

“Five days.” He glanced at her, a smirk dancing across his lips. “You impress me. I thought it’d take you a week.”

She told herself she wouldn’t be affected by the mirth in his tone or the way it reminded her of his laughter in their bed. The only way to make it out of this conversation alive was to hold onto her anger. She thought of Queen Sansa and Lady Catelyn, of the ice that ran through their veins. She made her voice just as cold.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m brushing a horse. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“I’m hardly in the mood for games, Ser Jaime.”

“I’m not playing any, Ser Brienne.”

“Why Tarth?” she pressed. “Of all places, why come here?”

“Oh, you know, sunny climes, fresh salt air, water so brilliantly blue it could move a man to tears.”

His words were so casual, so cavalier. It wouldn’t have hurt worse if he’d stabbed her.

“The truth this time, Jaime. Please.” She pushed away all thought of the last time she’d pleaded with him. “Why are you here?”

His hand stilled on the horse. He finally met her gaze, held it. He looked so tired, like his exhaustion went deeper than his body. To his soul.

“For peace.”

***

It was only after she’d walked away from him that she realized the golden hand had been nowhere in sight.

***

She never saw him in the Great Hall during meals, and she never ran into him in the corridors. She didn’t know when he ate or where he slept, and she told herself she didn’t care.

He haunted her enough as it was.

He came to her in her dreams almost every night, sometimes tender, sometimes mean, and she had yet to decide which was worse.

Every waking moment when she wasn’t otherwise occupied—sparring with Pod, reviewing the accounts with her father, listening to the advice of his councilors, fielding the problems of their people—her mind turned over their conversation again and again, his final words plaguing her.

_For peace_.

For peace? Peace for whom? Peace between them? Or peace for himself? Away from politics and power, from duty and responsibility, and all the trappings thereof.

After everything else—after inviting himself into her bed, after making her think that he loved her, after casting her aside like nothing more than a plaything, a distraction to keep boredom at bay until Cersei called him back to her—was he really so selfish, so uncaring and unfeeling, that he would willingly trade her one chance at peace for his own?

And then the thought that pained her most of all—that the man she thought she knew, who had knighted her and fought alongside her with honor, had never existed at all.

***

Her father insisted on assigning her a lady’s maid. She told him it wasn’t necessary. She required no assistance with her hair or her clothing, except her armor, and she had Pod for that. He insisted anyway.

Maerna was tall, only a few inches shorter than herself, but where Brienne was broad and muscular, Maerna was slender and graceful. She looked to be a few years older than Queen Sansa, and she had long brown hair that she wore in a single braid down her back. She didn’t seem to mind that Brienne had little for her to do or that there would be no gowns among the mending, and she didn’t make a face when Brienne asked to be addressed as “ser.”

***

Three weeks after her return home, Brienne received a request for a private audience, her first. She asked Maerna to bring the woman in question to the study she’d begun using since her return home and asked Podrick to guard the door. If her guest sought privacy, Brienne would see it protected.

The woman who entered must have been nearing fifty and stood at least a foot shorter than Brienne. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her eyes flickered around the room nervously. Brienne found herself wishing for charm she knew she did not possess. She gestured for the woman to sit with her in the chairs before the hearth, hoping to ease her anxiety by avoiding the formality of Brienne’s desk between them.

“Thank you, ser,” she said, and Brienne raised her eyebrows at the use of her proper title. The people of Tarth tried, but hardly anyone used it unprompted. “Thank you for seeing me.” The woman blushed, as if embarrassed by the reason for her visit. “I have an odd request, ser, but—I hope you don’t mind me saying—you are an odd woman, so I hope you won’t find it too strange.”

There was no malice or judgment in her words, her voice plain as if she were simply making an observation or stating a fact. It didn’t feel like an insult, so Brienne nodded silently for the woman to continue.

“My name is Lida, ser. My family and I live near the port and work in the market there. My youngest, Ailith, hasn’t been able to stop speaking of you since we saw you arrive. Your armor, your sword; there doesn’t seem to be room in her head for anything else. When word reached us that you were a knight, her eyes grew as big as dinner plates, I swear it.”

Lida smiled fondly, and for the first time since she’d walked in, she seemed to relax. Brienne returned her smile in what she hoped was an encouraging manner.

“She’s always been different, my Ailith,” Lida continued. “Not like her elder sisters, always getting into scraps with the boys her age for picking on her friends or the other little ones. She’s a fighter.” Lida took a deep breath and looked at Brienne with defiance in her eyes, as if daring her to react poorly to her next words. It was a challenge and a defense Brienne knew well, one she’d issued many times over the years. “It’s what she wants. It’s who she is.”

She rushed on before Brienne could respond.

“I’m here, Ser, to ask you if you would teach her, train her. To be like you.”

The request left Brienne speechless for a moment, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat, the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes as she remembered how desperately she had longed for a mentor in her youth, a warrior and a woman to give her answers to the questions she could never have asked a man. Someone to understand, without her having to prove it, that women were just as capable of fighting as men and that she was worthy of respect, no matter her gender.

She’d never had that mentor, but she could _be_ it. To someone else.

“I would be honored to train your daughter, Lida.”

***

Ailith was a worthy pupil—determined and enthusiastic, undaunted by either mistake or injury. Brienne had thought it impossible to be prouder of Pod than she already was, but he took to helping with Ailith’s training so patiently, with such a genuine interest and care, that she felt her pride triple in size.

***

Loneliness crept in as the weeks turned to months. She missed Sansa and the confidence they shared. Brienne trusted Podrick with her life, and she loved him as her son, but it wasn’t the same.

***

Anger was an excellent guard against heartache, but on her worst days, she gave in and let herself miss Jaime, the intimacy they’d shared before anything physical.

The distance between them now was so great, it might have stretched the length and breadth of Westeros.

***

She knew something was wrong as soon as she entered her rooms and found them empty.

In the few months that Maerna had been in her employ, not once had Brienne retired to her rooms without a bath or a bowl of hot water already waiting for her, steaming as if Maerna had only left minutes before. She didn’t know how she always managed to time it so precisely, but Brienne was grateful for it, for the keen observation that allowed Maerna to anticipate her needs before she voiced them.

Maerna rushed in minutes after Brienne, seemingly unsurprised to see her already standing there.

“My apologies, ser,” she said swiftly, but she didn’t meet Brienne’s eyes, and her movements—usually so calm and precise, an assured confidence to them that Brienne admired—were hurried and tense, as if she were over-correcting, trying to suppress some other emotion.

Brienne couldn’t have cared less about the bath, but the change in her behavior was concerning.

“Maerna,” Brienne started, and the girl immediately halted her ministrations, her body sagging in defeat before she squared her shoulders, as if bracing herself, and turned to face her.

“Yes, ser?”

“Is everything alright?” she asked carefully, trying to pitch her voice so it didn’t sound accusatory. “I ask only because you seem quite unlike yourself.”

Maerna didn’t answer, just lowered her gaze to the floor at her feet.

Brienne hesitated. These were not the sorts of conversations where she felt she excelled; they were much better suited for women with Sansa’s skillset. But she knew how to be honest and straightforward. That would have to be enough.

“You don’t owe me your thoughts and feelings,” she told her. “But you are welcome to share them.”

Maerna met her eyes again and stared at her for a long moment, clearly debating whether she should speak, whether she could trust her.

“My younger sister Nola works in the kitchens,” she said finally. “She was attacked tonight bringing grain from the stores. Another man intervened on her behalf, but…”

She didn’t need to ask what kind of attack she’d been spared.

“The threat is enough. I understand your distress.”

“Forgive me, ser, but I am not distressed.” The look in Maerna’s eyes sharpened. “We both know what happened to my sister is not a rare occurrence. Men use women for their pleasure without regard for their pain or personhood. They act without regard for the consequences because for them, there will not be any. It’s sickening. It’s _exhausting_. My sister’s fate was in the hands of two men when it should have been in her own. I am not distressed, ser. I am outraged.”

The silence that followed her speech was deafening, as if they were both stunned by the fervor with which she spoke.

“I’m sorry, ser,” Maerna said, shifting uneasily. “That was inappropriate.”

Brienne shook her head.

“There’s no cause for apology. I asked you to share. And everything you said was true.”

They watched each other in understanding.

“How is your sister?” Brienne asked gently.

Maerna hesitated before answering, like she was trying to figure out the truth of it herself.

“Shaken. But not broken.”

Brienne nodded solemnly.

“We are harder to break than men think. We have a strength they know nothing of.”

She saw that strength in Maerna’s eyes when she answered, “Yes. We do.”

***

When Nola stood before her and named the perpetrator of her assault, she was reminded of Lady Catelyn.

_A woman’s kind of courage_.

The following morning, Brienne quietly arranged for the man in question to be offered a permanent position aboard one of their trade ships.

No one should have to come face-to-face with their attacker every day.

***

Four months after her arrival on Tarth, she received a raven from Winterfell cordially inviting her to the wedding of Lady Arya Stark and Lord Gendry Baratheon. The ceremony was to take place in eight weeks, but Queen Sansa wrote to assure her she was welcome in the North at her earliest convenience.

***

When Pod brought her horse to the gates the day they were to leave for Winterfell, he wasn’t alone.

She still avoided the stables. Cowardly, perhaps, but she told herself knights didn’t needlessly put themselves in the way of harm, and it pained her even to look at Jaime.

If anyone thought her behavior strange, no one commented on it.

Pod looked disappointed with himself as they approached, as if he’d failed her, and she knew from that look alone that he must have argued against Jaime coming, but Jaime had insisted.

She didn’t fault him. She knew better than anyone how difficult it was to convince Jaime of anything once he’d made up his mind.

When she finally met Jaime’s eyes, it was the same wide-eyed, wondering gaze he’d worn every other time they’d said goodbye without knowing when they would see each other again. She held herself perfectly still while she waited for whatever he was going to say, certain that one false move, one wrong word would tip her over the edge of her carefully managed heartache, sending her freefalling through her grief.

But he only said, “Safe travels, ser” and handed her the reins, careful not to touch her.

Her breath was frozen in her lungs, her voice lost somewhere in the back of her throat, so she merely nodded, and Jaime stepped out of the way as she and Pod mounted their horses.

Memories of the last time she’d ridden away from him flashed unbidden through her mind, turning back on the Kingsroad to catch another glimpse of him, only to find him still standing there, watching her go. She’d tried desperately then to deny the ache she’d felt in her chest at leaving him.

The same ache was there now, and she hated it. Hated that his continued presence at Evenfall—even if she never saw him—was as much a comfort as it was a burden. Hated that he still held this power over her.

If she looked back now, would he still be standing there? She was scared to know, scared to know what it might mean if he was. If he wasn’t.

_In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave_.

She looked back.

He was.

***

The Queen in the North greeted them in the courtyard, a rare gleeful look on her face. Brienne made to kneel and felt Pod do the same at her side, but Sansa waved dismissively.

“Keep your feet.”

Brienne straightened. “Your Grace.”

Sansa took her hands, much in the way she had when she’d sent Brienne away, the excitement on her face settling into something calmer, more tender.

“Ser Brienne. I told you we would see each other again.”

***

The next morning after breakfast, Sansa asked if Brienne would join her for a walk in the Godswood. She dismissed the Hound, her constant shadow.

“I shall be well protected in Ser Brienne’s company, Sandor.”

Clegane barked a laugh.

“I should hope so,” he said and disappeared with a bow.

But they were not alone when they reached the Godswood. Arya was waiting for them there, and Bran, too, farther off.

Brienne looked doubtfully between the two sisters.

“I asked you here under false pretenses,” Sansa admitted. “There is a delicate matter that requires our attention, and while the walls of Winterfell do not have ears the likes of King’s Landing, I would not risk it. Not with this.”

Brienne’s heart beat a little faster, her mind sifting through the possibilities. Another threat against the Stark family. A threat against the Northern throne or against the Dragon Queen. Another war.

“It’s about Ser Jaime,” Arya announced.

That it might have anything to do with him had never even entered her mind.

“What about Ser Jaime?” she asked hesitantly.

“He killed Cersei.”

The ground shifted beneath her feet, the whole world on a tilt, sliding out from under her. She heard Sansa’s voice as if from far away.

“Arya, really. Some tact, please.”

“I’m not going to twist the knife,” Arya protested. “Better to deal it in one quick blow.”

Brienne closed her eyes against the spinning woods.

“How… How do you know?”

“Arya saw him.”

“I walked in right after.”

There were too many questions. She didn’t know which to ask next or how to get the words out. She opened her eyes and looked at Sansa, silently begging her to fill in the rest, but it was Arya who responded. It was her story to tell.

“He was standing over her when I walked in. He didn’t say anything, just…dropped the dagger and took off his gold hand. Crossed to the other side of the room and sat down without speaking. And then we waited. Jon and Tyrion and the Dragon Queen were already on their way. We were the only ones who knew. Well.” She paused, considering. “And Bran, I guess, if he had…_seen_ it,” she finished, somewhat sardonically.

Sansa looked at Brienne, apology clear in her eyes.

“Arya didn’t tell me until she’d returned to Winterfell, and by then you were gone. I would have sent the news with a raven, but I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t be intercepted.”

“Tyrion was adamant that day that no one find out,” Arya explained.

Which is why she’d had no news of him after Cersei’s death. Another question answered; this one, one she hadn’t even thought to ask. Since she’d found him on Tarth, she’d always assumed she’d never heard anything of him because he hadn’t wanted her to.

“He knew it would put Jaime at risk,” Sansa said softly, “if people knew not once, but twice their leader had died at his hand. He would have been in danger from the last of Cersei’s loyal followers and faced the world’s scorn besides.”

“And the Dragon Queen?” Brienne swallowed thickly. “She just let him go?”

“He’d done her a favor, really,” Arya answered. “Ended the war before any more of her Unsullied could die. Saved her from having to burn the city to the ground when Cersei refused to surrender.”

And saved the lives of the millions of people in King’s Landing. Again.

“That was always why he left you.” Bran’s voice floated across the clearing. “To convince her to surrender. And if he couldn’t, to do what had to be done.”

Against her will, Brienne’s eyes flooded with tears.

“Arya and I debated whether and when to tell you, but when you told me yesterday of Ser Jaime’s presence on Tarth, I knew it couldn’t wait.”

The truth had come out not long after Brienne and Sansa had retired to the queen’s private solar.

“I am sorry I sent you home,” Sansa had told her, guilt and regret in her eyes.

“No, you did right. I miss Winterfell. And you; I always will. But I belong on Tarth. I won’t be chased from my home.” _Just the stables_, she’d thought wryly.

Sansa had smiled at her resolve as if in approval, but she’d clearly still been troubled. By this, this secret.

“How many people know?” Brienne asked now.

“The four of us,” Sansa replied. “As well as Jon, Lord Tyrion, and Queen Daenerys. Gendry knows.” At this, the corners of Arya’s mouth turned up. “Queen Yara does not.

“You may do with this information what you wish,” Sansa continued. “It needn’t change your feelings or your behavior. It was given only because we felt you were entitled to it. Although,” and here, Sansa smiled sadly at her. “I did hope it might bring you peace.”

***

_Why are you here?_

_For peace._

***

The wedding between Arya and Gendry was the most beautiful ceremony she had ever attended. Arya and Gendry cloaked each other in love and protection, and their happiness was so infectious, Brienne didn’t stop smiling the entire night.

***

Brienne and Podrick were not due to leave Winterfell for another week, and Lord and Lady Baratheon not for another two, so Brienne gave Podrick a well-earned break from sparring and practiced with Arya instead.

After one such match, while they rested and caught their breath before starting up another, Brienne told Arya about Ailith.

“She sounds like me when I was young,” Arya said, smiling, and Brienne almost laughed out loud. Arya was hardly old; she couldn’t have more than five years on Ailith.

Then again, the war, the dead, the wights. The Night King. It had aged them all.

“Do you ever think about training more of them?” Arya asked, interrupting her thoughts. Brienne looked at Arya in confusion.

“Women, girls. We’re the ladies of the Stormlands, after all. We make the rules now. The Stormlands could be a safe haven for female warriors. We train them; Gendry arms them.”

Indeed, even as Lord of Storm’s End, Gendry showed no signs of giving up his trade. He was in the forge at that very moment.

Brienne thought of the little girl she used to be, how difficult her childhood had been because of the way she looked. How trying her adolescence had been because her interests were deemed unladylike. How stifling she’d found the limited prospects for women, how heavily those expectations had weighed on her.

And then she imagined growing up knowing those weren’t the only options. A whole generation of female soldiers. Not every woman or girl would be interested, but enough would be. Enough to make the world a little fairer, maybe even a little more just.

“What do you say, Ser Lady Tarth?”

She looked at Arya. She knew the light in Arya’s eyes was reflected in her own.

“I say yes, Lady Baratheon.”

***

She told Podrick on their way home, the road they traveled deserted, miles from the nearest town, out of reach of any holding. Sansa hadn’t exactly given her permission, but she hadn’t expressly forbidden it either.

_You may do with the information what you wish_.

Podrick knew how to keep a secret. If she was entitled to the information, then so was he. Brienne wasn’t the only one Jaime had abandoned in Winterfell.

***

This time, she went to him the very next day after returning home.

She’d timed it so the stables were empty, save for him, the rest of the stablehands breaking for their midday meal, and she found herself wondering again where and when it was that Jaime ate.

He was singing as she approached, his voice low and lilting, the quiet notes clearly meant only for him and the horse he was grooming. She’d never heard him so much as hum before, and the realization swept over her like a wave, nearly taking her down with it: There were so many things about him she’d never had the chance to learn.

He’d robbed her of that chance when he’d taken off for King’s Landing, no matter what his reasons.

His voice had trailed off as she’d gotten closer, the horse snorting and rolling its head in disapproval. Jaime shushed it in soothing tones and greeted her.

“Ser Brienne.”

She tried to keep her newly realized loss out of her voice.

“Ser Jaime.”

“How fare things in the North?”

“Winterfell is strong. Nearly rebuilt.”

“And our newlywed Lord and Lady Baratheon?”

Of course he knew. The marriage between the Lord of Storm’s End and a lady of Winterfell could hardly be kept secret. Still, she hadn’t expected him to ask.

“The wedding was lovely.”

The corners of Jaime’s mouth twitched upwards, the hint of a smirk.

“A lethal pairing. Well-matched.” A part of her she didn’t want to acknowledge wondered what people would have said about them if she and Jaime had married. “I wish them well.”

Despite the smirk, he sounded utterly sincere, almost affectionate. Her mind conjured up an image of Arya and Jaime sitting silently in the Red Keep together, alone but for Cersei’s corpse. Undoubtedly it was not an experience one shared without striking some kind of bond.

Her thoughts stayed with Arya. _Better to deal it in one quick blow_. And she was right. Blunt would have to be best.

“Queen Sansa told me what happened in King’s Landing.” She couldn’t bring herself to put it to words.

Jaime didn’t seem to have the same problem. He stilled for a moment.

“I was not aware Queen Sansa knew I killed Cersei.”

He started brushing the horse again, harder.

“Arya told her.”

“Of course. And I suppose Lord Bran could have told her as well, since he knows all.”

“You didn’t have to do it,” she told him, hating the pleading note in her voice, the same one that had asked him to stay. What she was begging for now, she didn’t know. “It didn’t have to be you.”

He dropped his hand from the horse, finally turning to look at her.

“Didn’t it?” he asked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him look so fierce, all trace of weariness gone. “Who else could have gotten close enough? Who else would have had a better chance at convincing her to surrender? Didn’t I owe it to the realm? After all the ways I’d enabled her, after everything I’d done for her?”

Brienne flinched at the words, too close to the ones he’d used in the courtyard.

The pain that reverberated between them as they watched each other was unbearable, excruciating, like a high-pitched note that shatters glass.

In the end, she was the one who broke it. A mercy killing.

“I’m sorry, then.”

“_You’re_ sorry?” He looked incredulous, shocked. Offended even. She held her ground.

“Yes. You never should have had to kill the woman you love.”

He turned away from her then, back to the horse.

“It wasn’t love. It was poison,” he spat.

“I—I see,” she said, startled by his vitriol.

He looked up again.

“Do you?”

His eyes were on hers, searching, imploring her to understand…_something_. He was looking at her so intently, she started to feel unmoored. He’d never looked at her this way. It was overwhelming.

She wasn’t strong enough to withstand it.

“Good day, Ser Jaime.”

He deflated a little at her words, his eyes losing some of their intensity. His voice, when he spoke, sounded resigned.

“Good day, Ser Brienne.”

***

She’d wondered whether he would look different to her, now that she knew. More despicable, or maybe less. But he hadn’t. He’d just looked like Jaime. The same dark beard, streaked with silver, softening the angles of his face. The same delicate lines around his eyes that she’d counted by firelight while he slept. And the same strong shoulders, strong enough to bear the fate of all of Westeros twice.

***

Her thoughts were keeping her up at night.

Whatever clarity she had hoped to find by confronting Jaime with the truth never came. She was more at war with herself than ever.

If he no longer loved Cersei; if he left with the sole purpose of bringing an end to the war; if all his efforts were to ensure more innocent lives weren’t lost, she could hardly find fault with his motives.

But if that was always his intention, why had he said such horrible things? Why had he left her like he did? She couldn’t decide which mattered more, his reason for leaving or the manner in which he left.

Nor could she hide from the truth any longer, the question she’d avoided asking these months because it stung like pouring alcohol on an open wound: Was it honestly fair to condemn him for the simple act of not sharing her feelings?

Except he made her think he did. He made her believe he loved her, only to toss her so cruelly away.

But what had he actually said or done to make her think so? They’d never made any promises between them. She wasn’t so naïve as to think sex the equivalent of love, and whatever she thought she might have seen in his gaze wasn’t the same as a declaration.

Then again, whatever his feelings, he must have known hers. She’d invited him back to her bed night after night, trusted him where she’d trusted no one else. She’d held his face in her hands and begged him to stay. Could she love a man who would so willfully disregard her heart?

Would he be the man she loved if he’d known he could save the realm and done nothing?

Round and round she went, without end or solution.

***

She started walking the ramparts at night, after supper, before she retired to her bedchamber. The walls of Evenfall were nowhere near as impressive as those at Winterfell—or, as the walls had been, before the battle—but it was quiet, and she could be alone. She could smell the salt in the air and feel the breeze coming off the ocean, and she could hope the elements would push the tangled web of her thoughts right out of her head.

Two weeks into her new routine, she heard voices coming from the direction of the training yard. She stopped where she was, and the scuffle of her footsteps gave way to the rhythmic clash of wooden training swords, a sound she’d recognize anywhere.

No one should have been practicing this late, in the dark, the moon and a few solitary torches the only source of light.

Brienne walked to where the ramparts gave her the best view of the training yard and immediately stepped back, into the shadows, lest she be seen.

Pod and Jaime were sparring, each with one arm behind their back. There was something stilted, almost awkward about Pod’s movements, about both of their movements, both of them wielding their swords more slowly than she knew they were capable.

“Good, good. Again,” Jaime said after one such combination, and as they circled each other, she realized the reason for their pace: Pod was holding his sword in his left hand.

Jaime was teaching him to fight left-handed.

She didn’t wonder that Pod hadn’t told her. She felt certain it was an omission designed to spare her pain; besides which, Pod had a right to his own secrets. She waited to feel angry or resentful that he had sought out Jaime’s company, but she didn’t. Instead, her eyes welled with tears, inexplicably overcome at the sight of them training together.

There was a time, in the most private, most precious corner of her heart, when she’d wished they might be a family.

***

She knighted Podrick the next day.

Ailith had turned fourteen while they were away at Winterfell, and Pod’s skills were well beyond those of a squire. He’d earned it. He was ready.

He’d forgiven Jaime where she had not.

***

It was a private ceremony, just the two of them. She’d felt a moment’s hesitation at knighting him with so little fanfare, but when she saw the tears in his eyes and her own vision blurred, she knew she’d done right. They didn’t need an audience for this.

***

He immediately swore fealty to her.

Ser Podrick Payne, Knight of the Five Kingdoms, sworn sword of Ser Lady Brienne of Tarth.

***

She told herself it was simple curiosity. The discovery of his late-night sparring sessions with Podrick had given her a glimpse into this new life he led, unknown to her despite his proximity. It was only natural that she should wonder at the rest.

The real problem, of course, with this curiosity, was seeking answers in a way that wouldn’t promote gossip and rumors among the staff. Her father would make too many inquiries of his own, Podrick would see right through any of her professed motives, and asking Jaime himself was out of the question. It was cowardly and small of her, but she didn’t want him to know that she thought of him. She wasn’t ready to see the look on his face when he asked her why she cared, nor did she have an answer she could give him.

Which left Maerna.

She asked her one morning when she came to clear her breakfast tray. Brienne had taken the meal in her room so she could write to Sansa and Arya. She took strength from the sight of their names on the parchment before her and asked Maerna whether she knew where Ser Jaime had been staying during his time on Tarth.

She looked mildly surprised but hid it almost immediately behind her usual calm, unshakeable expression.

“In the stables, Ser,” she said with certainty. “With the other stablehands.”

Maerna watched her for a moment, and Brienne felt naked; horribly, vulnerably transparent, like a puzzle Maerna could solve if she looked long enough. She dropped her eyes back to the letters in front of her. Maerna studied her a moment longer, but when she spoke all she asked was, “Anything else, ser?”

Brienne shook her head, and Maerna left without another word.

***

There would have been something so begrudgingly endearing, so frustrating and contrary and intrinsically Jaime in a willingness to invade her childhood home but refusing to actually live within its walls if she didn’t suspect it was borne, not out of a misguided attempt to respect her boundaries, but rather an honest belief that the stables were what he deserved.

***

She asked Maerna to have permanent guest quarters prepared for Jaime. After working with the horses all day and training Pod to fight with both hands all night, he should have a comfortable bed.

***

The night Jaime was to move into his guest chambers, Brienne avoided the ramparts, instead retreating to her favorite hideaway as a girl—the balcony on the tower above the library, the highest point in Evenfall, where she had a view of the sea all the way out to the horizon.

The sky was clear, the moon’s reflection shimmering on the water. It was colder than it had been in some weeks, a reminder that winter was still upon them, even here. She gripped the balcony’s railing and tracked the movements of the waves, trying to let their unceasing rhythm soothe her.

She didn’t realize her father had joined her until he was right beside her. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for him to seek her out after supper, but she’d known he would find her tonight.

Neither of them said a word, eyes on the water. It was some minutes before her father broke the silence.

“I heard we gave Ser Jaime a room in the guest quarters.” He paused. “Do you love him?”

Brienne took a deep breath. It didn’t matter that he was her father; it was embarrassing that he’d been able to deduce so much with so little.

“Why? Because I gave him a bed?” She hated the defensive tone in her voice. It was too obvious. “He was a knight of the seven kingdoms, once upon a time.” Like in the stories she loved as a girl, only more complicated. More human. Real. “Sleeping with the stablehands is beneath him.”

“He didn’t seem to think so.”

She frowned. That was part of the problem.

“Ser Jaime has a strange opinion of himself.”

“You lied to me, daughter.” Brienne finally turned to meet her father’s eyes. There was no judgment there, no reproach. Only kindness. A desire to understand. And maybe, a little bit of sympathy. “You told me you knew him only a little. But you know him very well, don’t you?”

It was impossible to tell from his question whether her father suspected there had been a physical relationship between them, but she flushed at the possible double meaning all the same. She turned back to the sea. She hoped the moon wasn’t so bright as to illuminate the blush on her cheeks or the tears in her eyes when she answered.

“Yes.”

“So I’ll ask again,” her father said, gentle but insistent. “Do you love him?”

“He doesn’t love me.”

That was the answer she’d come to. The _why_ of it all was immaterial. She’d fooled herself into thinking he’d felt the same as she did, but he didn’t. He couldn’t love her and treat her the way he had. He couldn’t possibly.

That most private, most precious—most naïve, most hopeful—corner of her heart poked at her. _Are you sure?_

“That’s not what I asked,” her father countered.

She kept her eyes on the tide, swelling and retreating but always rushing back to crash upon the shore. This was the other answer she’d come to.

“Yes.”

***

If she’d thought that giving Jaime a room in the guest quarters might result in her seeing him more, she was mistaken. Jaime’s movements at Evenfall remained as much a mystery as ever.

Her disappointment at this led to the very uncomfortable question of whether forcing an interaction had been her true motivation in giving him rooms all along and the even more unpleasant consideration of just how weak she’d become.

Brienne was sitting in front of her fireplace, running through thoughts of Jaime and feeling quite sick of both herself and him when Maerna stopped before her.

It was after dinner, a time of night when Brienne didn’t usually see her, but she must have noticed Brienne’s sour mood, her observant eyes missing nothing, because she’d taken to checking in with Brienne more throughout the day.

“Ser,” she started, and Brienne looked up. “You told me once that I had a right to my thoughts and feelings but that I could share them with you. That I could trust you with them.” She paused. “You have that same right, ser, but you also have that same trust.”

Brienne considered her. Her calm demeanor, the confident line of her shoulders. The determined look on her face, the delicate question in her eyes. Maerna, the lady’s maid she hadn’t wanted, who always seemed to know what she needed. And tonight, it was this, the very thing she’d become without Brienne noticing: a confidante. A friend.

She gestured for Maerna to sit down in the chair next to her.

“What do you know of Ser Jaime?”

Maerna regarded her evenly, neither surprised nor confounded by the question.

“Not much beyond what anyone else might know. He spends most of his time in the stables. I’ve heard the other men say they hardly seem him leave but to eat.”

“Where does Ser Jaime take his meals? I’ve never seen him in the hall during mealtimes.”

“He eats in the kitchens, ser. He has nearly since his arrival at Evenfall.”

Brienne frowned.

“Why?”

Maerna’s voice, her eyes, were gentle when she spoke.

“He said no one wanted to watch a grown man struggle to eat one-handed, but I think we all knew it was more than that. He didn’t want to eat where there would be whispers.”

Alarm bells rang in Brienne’s head. How had anyone on Tarth managed to find out what had happened in King’s Landing?

“What whispers?” It came out more urgently than she’d intended, undoubtedly giving away too much.

Maerna hesitated. It was the first time Brienne had ever seen her look truly uncomfortable.

“Kingslayer.” She said it like an apology, like she regretted putting voice to such a vile thing.

The word sank like a stone in the pit of her stomach, the way it had every time she’d heard it since Jaime told her the truth. It hit harder this time, twice as heavy, twice as true, but she pushed past it, relieved, at least, that no one seemed to have guessed at his newest secret.

“There was no whispering in the kitchens?” She found that hard to believe.

Across from her, Maerna sent her a sly grin.

“The women in the kitchens are better gossips than most. They know how to make sure they’re overheard only when they wish it.”

“And his reputation didn’t bother them?”

Maerna shrugged lightly.

“He quickly proved himself to be nothing like it. Every bit as charming as we’d heard, but quiet. Deeply sad. Not the cocky Lannister lion everyone described.” Maerna smiled a little, small and compassionate. “He seemed just to be looking for a place where he wouldn’t be noticed.

“His second week here, he offered to help watch the little ones after meal times to make sure the rest of us could eat. They all loved him immediately. After that, none of us would have dared ask him to leave.” Maerna’s eyes were sharp on hers. “Children are very wise. They do not trust bad men. He’s been immensely helpful. Invaluably so.”

She stared at Brienne expectantly. Brienne closed her eyes as the realization hit her.

Of course. He ate his meals in the kitchens. He would have been there.

_Children do not trust bad men._

Her heart ached. She wanted to cry.

It was just like him.

She opened her eyes and looked at Maerna, the answer already written across her face.

“Jaime was the one who intervened on behalf of your sister. He saved Nola.”

“Yes, ser.” A moment of guilt flickered through her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time. I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t suspect there was any…history between you two until you asked after him a few weeks ago.”

History. An understatement. She had a feeling Maerna suspected that, too.

“He saved me from the same fate once,” she confessed. It was just a small piece of that history, but it felt especially important tonight, even if she didn’t quite know why. “That’s how Ser Jaime lost his hand.”

Brienne watched as the shock of that statement swept over Maerna. When it washed away, all that was left was a sincere kindness.

“He is a good man, ser.”

It sounded like reassurance. It felt like permission.

“He is.”

***

It was well after midnight when she banged on his door, but she was beyond caring. His were the only guest quarters currently occupied. She’d insisted when they’d first arrived that Podrick be given chambers in the family wing. There was no one to wake but the man currently taking too long to open his damned door.

She banged again.

“Yes, I hear you,” Jaime called, the exasperation in his tone evident even through the door. “Give a man a minute to—”

The door swung open, and Jaime stopped short, whatever else he was about to say apparently lost at the sight of her.

“Brienne,” he breathed, and she wasn’t so angry that she didn’t notice the way his hair was messy with sleep and his shirt—which he’d clearly just thrown on—was open at the laces, offering her a glimpse of his chest hair, but she brushed the observation aside. It wasn’t helping.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” She pushed past him into his room, not waiting for an invitation. She strode all the way to the far wall, then whipped back around to face him. He was still standing next to the open door, his hand still on the doorknob. “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

Jaime sighed and shut the door, rubbed his hand down his face.

“We’re doing this now, are we?” He sounded tired, but not sleepy, like she was trying his patience, like he was halfway to a fight already.

Good. She was itching for a fight.

She didn’t bother answering his question. The answer was obvious.

“Why didn’t you just tell me why you were going to King’s landing?” He didn’t say anything. “Why? Did you think I would try and stop you?”

“No. I knew you would insist on going with me.”

“Of course I would have! It’s what you and I do.” Jaime winced, like the confirmation, even though he’d already suspected as much, pained him. “We fight side-by-side. We save each other. It’s what we’ve always done.”

Before the Long Night, before she’d vouched for him at Winterfell, before all of it. He lost his hand for her; she refused to let him die. He jumped into a bear pit; she pulled him out after her. Even when they hadn’t particularly liked each other, they’d saved each other.

“If you’d gone with me, you could have died,” he said simply.

“_You_ could have died!” She pulled her anger around herself like armor, like it could retroactively protect her from how nearly that possibility had broken her.

“I was willing to risk that,” Jaime declared, and Brienne opened her mouth to argue, but he spoke again before she could, his voice rising. “I wasn’t, however, willing to risk you.” He took a step toward her. “Do you understand that?” Now he sounded furious. “I wasn’t willing to risk that she’d get anywhere _near_ you. I would have rather _died_ than let her get her hands on you.”

“If you had asked,” she yelled, “I would have told you I wasn’t interested in living in a world without you!”

Jaime stared at her in stunned silence, something like heartbreak writ across his face, and Brienne closed her eyes against it and exhaled softly, her shoulders sagging with the release. She felt exhausted suddenly, years of it catching up with her all at once in the wake of her anger. It was gone now. Burned through her and emptied her out, leaving her raw and exposed.

“Was any of it real?” Her voice came out strangled, broken, barely a whisper. “Between us?”

She squeezed her eyes tighter against the tears that threatened to follow. She heard footsteps on the floor, felt him standing in front of her. Her body had always been so traitorously aware of his. When she opened her eyes, he was waiting for her, his eyes locked on hers.

“You were the realest part of my life. Not protecting that, not protecting _you_…” He paused, his eyes taking her in, locked on hers. “That would have been the most hateful thing I had ever done.”

_It’s a hateful thing, not to protect the one you love._

They were so undeniably well-suited for each other.

“I know I hurt you.” There were tears in Jaime’s eyes now. “I said terrible things I knew would hurt you. I wanted you to hate me,” he confessed. “I would have rather had you alive and hating me…” He trailed off like the end of that sentence was too horrible even to contemplate, let alone put into words. “It was a price I was willing to pay, but I didn’t let myself consider how much it would cost you. How much pain I would cause you.” He stopped, his eyes searching hers. “I caused you so much pain,” he said quietly, almost more to himself than to her, his tears spilling over. “And for that, I am so sorry.” He reached for her, and she let him, his hand coming up to cup her face. “I am more sorry for your pain than I can even begin to say.”

She let the words sink in, grateful more than ever for his touch, his skin against hers. Watched the tears slip down his face. She loathed them, even as she realized how much she’d needed to hear the words. They’d suffered enough tears to last both their lifetimes. She brought her hand up to his, curling her fingers around his wrist, thumb stroking the back of his hand.

“I didn’t hate you,” she told him.

“Brienne.” He scoffed, and his tears did nothing to diminish the wry, disbelieving curve of his smile.

She shook her head. He needed to understand this. She’d always loved him. Even when she wasn’t sure she should, even when she wasn’t sure if it was right. Even when she didn’t want to, even when she’d wished she didn’t, she’d loved him.

“I didn’t hate you. I mourned you. I mourned us. What we had, what we could have had. What I lost. I thought you didn’t want it.”

A single tear slipped from her lashes, and he brushed it away with his thumb.

“I did. I wanted it. All of it. All of you. I still do.”

His face was so open, so honest, so sincere.

She shut her eyes again. Looking at him was too much. It was everything she couldn’t admit she wanted. The one thing she’d thought it impossible for her to have.

It was hard to breathe.

She clung to Jaime even tighter, swallowed thickly, opened her eyes and said, “Then tell me next time. Please. Don’t go without me.”

Jaime stepped impossibly closer, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“There won’t be a next time. Fuck the kingdoms. To hell with the whole bloody continent.”

She laughed at that, a slightly watery sound, but her old fear quickly stifled it.

“Is that why you came here?” she whispered. “To get away from it all?”

It was Jaime’s turn to laugh. He shook his head slightly.

“I truly never thought you’d leave Winterfell. I didn’t think I had the right to return and beg your forgiveness.” Of course he hadn’t. “I’d seen Tarth once before, from a distance, on my way to Dorne. The water there was the only thing I’d ever seen that even came close to the color of your eyes. If I couldn’t have you, I could have that.”

_Water so brilliantly blue it could move a man to tears_.

Her sharp inhale was loud in the quiet between them, and when he smiled, she knew she was right in remembering. In his own absurd, obtuse way, he’d been trying to tell her, even then.

But the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and he looked nervous, still wary, somehow, of how he’d be received. She wanted to kiss the uncertainty from his face. The grief, the pain, the fear. She wanted to kiss it all away.

So she did.

***

“Jaime?”

“Mmm?” She felt more than heard it, murmured into her skin where he was kissing her neck.

“I’m really rather tired.”

He lifted his head immediately, pulling away and stepping back from her with a soft, “Oh.” She watched him make a valiant effort to keep the disappointment off his face before she took pity on him.

She never felt this light, this playful with anyone else. Only him.

“I think you should take me to bed.”

Jaime’s answering grin was so filthy, she felt herself flush all over.

***

He worshipped her. Under his fingers, his lips, his tongue, she was invincible.

***

Afterward, they lay facing each other, Jaime using his good hand to brush her hair away from her forehead, to trace the line of her lips. She stroked the tired skin of his right wrist, watching as his eyes followed the movements of his fingertips.

“Ask me again.” His finger stopped at the center of her bottom lip.

“Ask you what?” Her brow furrowed with the question, and he raised his hand to smooth it out.

“Ask me why I’m here.” He trailed his fingers down her cheek. “Why Tarth.”

“Why are you here, Jaime?”

His hand stilled. His eyes met hers.

“For love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3


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